Mostrando resultados por autor "Mace Styx" en Todas las categorías

I took a short break a few hours later. Breaking through the curtains of vines and intertwined stalks was tiring, especially when I had to fight through the boggy soil that was weighing down my feet. It was then when I suddenly heard some rustling from the shrubs as I was taking out my supplies. I paused for a moment to closely observe. A few seconds later, I heard some subtle grunting close by.

Becca was not allowed to be touched by other men, not even the tip of her fingers nor a strand of her hair. The very first time I witnessed this issue was when a male customer shook Becca’s hand when he made a hefty purchase of her designs. Anybody would have known that it was a mere form of polite gesture, but I noticed that her husband was staring at them until the customer walked out of the shop.

I called for Archie then, shouting at the top of my lungs and hoping that perhaps she had escaped to the outside, or was on her way to my house. I lifted my phone to call her and saw a video clip she had sent. Feeling the tension drain from my body as relief washed over me like a wave, I sighed, assuming that this message would tell me exactly where she was, that she was safe and that the worst I would then be faced with was an embarrassing conversation with the police. As it turned out, only the last of these was true.

How Sharaign met her end is not recorded. Whether some hero did eventually succeed in bringing her to heel we shall never know. Though there are complimentary legends about the crozier of St. Dunstan, a saint already famed for his battles with the devil, being used to strike her dead. What is recorded, is what was done with her remains. For those who don’t know, a "cairn" is a roughly assembled pile of loose rocks. They usually consist of larger rocks at the bottom with smaller fragments balanced precariously on top the higher it becomes.

Short stories by Mace Styx: "The grave keeper opened the door, stepping awkwardly outside at such an unbearably slow pace Jonah wanted to scream. “Where is it, this grave you saw?” he asked, vaguely, as though Jonah had informed him that he’d left the kettle on. “Over there, near the tree.” Jonah told him, pointing. “I dropped my lantern right next to it.” “I’ll take a look,” he said, still speaking as if finding the earth broken open was a mild, everyday inconvenience. “You wait right here".

Short Stories by Mace Styx: "The hour was so late (or early, depending on how you looked at it) that she barely saw anyone as she padded silently from the castle, through the winding cobbled streets. The letter she had was burning in her hand and she still had the blade she had used to slit the King’s throat. If a member of the city watch found her, she was worse than dead. Still, she felt oddly calm".

Mayor Wilfred was not the kind of person that would willingly accept interviews, but for some reason, he needed the aid of our service to send alarming news. Apparently, the mayor’s daughter, Elsa Elborne, suddenly went missing. Officer Warren was the first face I saw when I went to the town hall. This newly recruited police just also moved in to the island a few months ago, and he was still in the process of trying to impress the chief and earn a permanent position. Although I didn’t bother to ask, my guess was he probably volunteered himself to solve this serious case.

Standing against the trunk of the oak tree was a man. His hair was silver, but not in a way that made him look old - it glinted faintly in the patches of light that punch through the crown of branches above. For a moment, Tansy wondered if maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her. That often happened when she was tired; she’d see something out of the corner of her eye and think it was something entirely different. When she blinked, though, he was still standing there, with a concerned look on his face.

It was a Monday. Monday was the day grandma got her medicine. She took some pill that some white-coated doctor told us would keep her alive, if only for a little while. I walked to the pharmacy, a couple of blocks away, through the rain. Careful to avoid the divots and dips in the beat-up sidewalk where puddles were beginning to form. There’s an old store that sells rugs and carpets between Grandma’s and the pharmacy.

A few hours later, wafting into the room with the supercilious air of confidence peculiar to those who know they are to speak on a subject upon which they are unlikely to be challenged came Mavis Clay, adorned in a flowing white dress that seemed to be more ruffles than stitching and sat herself like Christ in Da Vinci’s painting of the Last Supper in the center of the long table, whilst historians, experts, and the duke himself flanked her like apostles, on either side.

I ran back on the bed and cowered under the sheets once again. “It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream.” I kept on repeating this line inside my head to convince myself that what I saw wasn’t true. Even though I cannot make out what this person looked like from afar, those glowing red eyes was more than enough to terrify me for years. The sequence between the hoots gradually grew longer, but every single one drew closer and closer.

Outside the tent was damp and cold and moist and like nothing Kayla had ever seen. Almost immediately, she wanted to return into the tent. Supria was already swiftly ahead. Here was like nowhere she had ever seen before. The sky was an eerie purple and orange, there were lighting strikes without thunderbolts. Sequoias characterized the landscapes and then the people.

Fear made me dig. After a while, I really did find something, but it didn't look like a doll to me. It looked more like an old rag sewed up to look like a doll, with two buttons as eyes and few strands of hair poking out of what was supposed to be her head. It was muddy and half-decayed, and I tried to tell her again that she doesn't need it, but I didn't.

Well, this beginning of my new life did not start as I thought it was going to. I was here for less than two hours, and I already managed to have a panic attack. What should I expect next. I was in a foreign country, in a car with two people I do not know, going to a clinic where I should have a meeting that could determine my whole future. I had no idea how to do it, but apparently, I had four and a half hours to bring my A-game and impress my future boss.

Then, she looked up and let out a short, bitten-off scream. A...thing was there, looming above her, observing her with the impassivity of the cat. Though most of it was shrouded in darkness, Paige knew it was a demon. She could vaguely make out the silhouette of wings, of huge horns curling up from its head like a gazelle. She wanted to light more candles to see better, but she didn’t want to look away from the creature.

One of the most remarkable things about Cathy was her beautiful skin. She had skin that was clear as crystal. And her figure was amazing. Her nose was pointed, defining her face in a well-structured manner. People often called her "the sunflower girl" because of her features and talents as a stripper.

The next complainant brought us back our cabbages, which was one of our produce that father took pride in. He was already agitated before the vendor could say anything. And just like the tomatoes, the cabbages looked totally fine on the surface. The vendor took out one of them that was already cut in half, and father tried his best not to lash out in front of the vendor because of what he saw. There were maggots crawling from the stalk of the cabbage, and the inner leaves were incredibly pale that it was almost grayish white.

Further examination revealed that the "model" was in fact an actual human body - stripped of its skin and preserved by a process very similar to that used by Dr. Van Hagens. Reading of this singular event, I decided to do some digging and upon examining the list of special effects artists on the film in question, stumbled across a name that struck me as familiar. Familiar, because its owner, one Rene Toubain, had also worked on a film, in which large sections of the action took place in the catacombs of Paris and in particular, in the section with the additional skulls.

I had to admit it to myself. I am lost. ''What should I do now?'', I said. I did the only thing I could think of at the moment. I started yelling. ''Daaaaad. Dad where are you?'' No response. Just a sound of the wind and cracking branches. I had a choice to make. I can keep going, or turn around and get back to my car. The second choice sounded better, but how can I leave my father. He is probably in pain, still waiting for me, and probably worrying sick about me.

Ms. Warner could not help thinking of the burnt streaks that ran down the sides of the tiny carcass she had disposed of that day. The scalded paths that seemed to have seared through the fur and flesh of the poor animal. She had almost gagged at the unpalatable similarity between that vision and this highly detailed effigy. The story was fantastical. One that I knew would be embellished and exaggerated and probably be recycled with alternative names as a spook story to scare children for years to come.